


Black Tie Event

by ijen



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Moon Knight (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijen/pseuds/ijen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Moon Knight and Punisher team-up (just like old times!) after Marc got back from LA</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Tie Event

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in current continuity, and as much as I want to ignore Bendis's MK, especially after the announcement that Ellis is writing him (and getting him right!!!--at least from his interview), it is part of his continuity. Ignoring it will make me no better than Bendis. Hence, LA, the TV show, and Buck.

He looks more comfortable in the suit than he, the sometimes multi-millionaire, is. To be fair, it has been some time since he’s last worn a nice ridiculously overpriced suit--this is his first time in one ever since he got back from LA. And it has been even longer since he slipped into the Steven Grant role.

The security check in these events is more ridiculous than what he remembers. Not only are they subject to the standard metal scanner and the body scanner, they still have to submit to really thorough patting downs. He finishes his first and he catches Castle’s eye when it’s his turn. The only thing he lets on is bare-toleration-at-a-normal-but-annoying-routine.

While he waits for him he makes a little fuss about fixing his cufflink and tie. He grumbles a little about his one-thousand dollar suit being manhandled by rough, unappreciative hands. They should have worn gloves: dusty handprints show too easily on this three-piece white suit. Castle finishes his security check with no problem. He waits for him to put on his shoes and belt.

They make their way to the main ballroom through one of the six exit doors lining its perimeter. Waiters dressed almost as nicely as him carry drinks and nibbles through the mass of mingling really rich people. There is an imperial staircase across them; nobody seems to be entering from the grand doors at its top landing. Everything is lit very brightly, primarily by the gigantic chandelier with electronic candles hanging serenely in the centre of the room, and also by the tinier versions of that chandelier mounted to the walls around the ballroom. From time to time he winces involuntarily from the glare of the light bouncing off someone’s jewellery.

“Mr Grant, I’m so glad you managed to join us in the end,” says a voice behind him. A tiny woman in a black dress smiles a perfectly corporate smile at him. “And I’m so glad you managed to find a date!”

“Er,” says Marc, lifting a finger to scratch at his temple, “he’s just my plus-one.”

He glances quickly at Castle; he’s busy looking at everywhere, probably trying to burn every little detail of the surroundings into his memory.

“I’m Lakisha Jones, I spoke to your assistant on the phone. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to this year’s Annual Fennell Co Charity Ball. I would like to remind you that Fennell Co is matching your entry fee dollar for dollar to be donated to the Wounded Warrior Project and the Food Bank of New York City.  Here is your welcome package.”

It’s a necklace, similar to the one she wears. Castle flicks at the silver cube pendant and it reveals a USB drive.

“We realise that giving participants thick promotional files would only cause inconvenience and greater carbon footprint,” says Ms Jones.

“Of course.”

“If you need anything else, my colleagues and I will be in by the staircase. We’re identifiable by the blue wristband we wear. Do enjoy your evening, Mr Grant, and Mr--”

“Everts.”

She shakes their hands and leaves them with another perfectly corporate smile.

He stuffs the necklace into his pants pocket. He turns to Castle, who’s slipped it around his neck. “Might as well as get some of these fine food before,” he shrugs a little.

“As long as you’re not too bloated to move later,” says Castle, “I don’t care.”

He takes a plate of rice paper rolls from a waiter. “You sure?”

“I had protein bars.”

These are amazing rolls, even if he’s forgotten to take the peanut sauce to go with them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m actually not surprised to see you.”

Marc leaned closer into the van to peer at the logo on his chest. “A janitor? Castle, it’s a multi-billion company fundraiser ball, no one who’s wearing anything less than a tailcoat is going to be seen in there.”

“Spector,” said Castle, squinting a little at the light peeking out of the edges of Marc’s silhouette. “You’re back.”

“I thought you’re with the Thunderbolts now.”

“I’ve still got my own business.”

“Of course you do.” Marc stood upright, looked at the building in front of him--the rather bland back-entry of an otherwise incredibly posh hotel. He pushed his hands into his coat pockets. “You want an easier access to the crime-families get-together tonight?”

Castle lifted his cap enough to let Marc see his eyes. There was a faint scar running across his right eye. He has one just like that. “What’s the catch?”

“It’s too late to get you fitted, so your own tux,” said Marc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He picks up another plate of the rice paper rolls, this time not forgetting the peanut sauce. He manages to catch a glimpse of a row of very big men in black tux rushing towards the exits. They certainly are not plus-ones.

He can see the moon shyly peeking out of the Manhattan skyline. It’s waxing. He takes another bite of the roll carefully; he doesn’t want any stain on his white suit. One beautiful woman is smiling at him from her spot near the window. He smiles back. You don’t want me, he muses inwardly, Steven Grant has been penniless for years now since we transferred his worth to various trustees around the globe. Steven Grant has outlived his usefulness, he’s dead, he’s worse than dead, he’s never really existed in the first place.

(God, I hated you so much, he adds).

“Where’s your date, Mr Grant?”

It’s Jones again. She’s handing him a glass of red. A glass isn’t going to do anything to him; Castle wouldn’t even mind.

“Plus-one.” He takes a sip of the wine. Strong, fruity body with a lingering after taste. He likes it. “I believe he went to the lavatory. I hope he didn’t lose his way.”

(‘ _Lavatory’_? Steven Grant might still be alive after all.)

“It is too easy to get lost in this place,” says Jones, “If you would like to look for him, maybe we can provide you with some escort to make sure you’ll find your way just fine.”

Three of those bulging not-plus-ones are standing behind her. He envies them for wearing sunglasses; the light in this room is really too blinding. “Thank you,” he says, “please let me finish my rice paper rolls and this wine and we can go searching for Mr Everts.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is that…”

“Yeah,” said Marc. “We’re maintaining radio silence once we’re inside. Come once you see the signal.”

Buck was still stealing glances at Castle from the rearview mirror. “The signal? (He looks so much smaller in real life than on YouTube).”

“The usual one.” Marc sat back down in the backseat of the limousine beside Castle. The Manhattan traffic meant that they were going to be stuck here for another ten minutes. Buck was humming to himself, his fingers drumming a rhythm to whatever he was humming.

“What happened to the ‘copter?” said Castle. Others might have been surprised at his breaking his usual silence, but not Marc. For better or worse, Castle has always been, well, friendlier to him.

“There wouldn’t be any point in us making an effort to blend in if we had gone in a huge moon-shaped ‘copter.”

“What happened to your pilot?”

Marc leaned against the window rest and glared at Castle. “I didn’t know you cared. Thanks.”

“I don’t. I need to know if you’re up for this mission.”

Marc sighed. “I don’t know what Stark and the rest of the Avengers have been saying, but I’m fine. I’m stable. I’m not crazy; at least, not crazier than you.”

He caught Buck’s eye in the rearview mirror. One day he would have to tell the kid stuff. Too many people have been saying he was crazy in front of him, and now he was driving him to a nice evening out with the Punisher. If he has learned anything from his past li[ves], it’s that he had to give people he worked a reason to trust him. That would be hard to balance with trying to keep a nice distance away from them but he’d manage. Somehow.

“I don’t care about that. Are you up for the mission or not.”

“Yeah, I’m the avatar of vengeance, etc. I’m still good, don't worry.” It had been sometimes since he said out loud his Mission in Life. He kept his eyes straight on the road ahead. He didn’t want to see any small feathery shrivelled thing lurking near his blind spot, grinning at him despite its beak, hissing poison-laced words that would bring the fog down on him again. “And you. Don’t kill.”

Castle let out something that sounded like a cross between a chuckle and a snort. “In front of you. Sure.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“This doesn’t look like the gents,” says Marc as he looks around the storeroom. Huge and Bulging #1 closes the door behind them; it’s now pitch dark inside. He feels a big strong hand shove him against the racks at the other end of the room (not much distance for his body to travel; between him and the three Huge and Bulging they’re pretty much stepping on one another’s feet).

“Steven Grant doesn’t exist. Who are you?”

A bottle of cleaning supplies bounces off his shoulder. Luckily for him, it’s almost empty.

Someone has found the light. The bulb only adds to their body heat, already building upon each other since they entered the room. It’s hot. Marc reaches up to undo his collar.

“I’m Steven Grant.”

The hand across his face flings him back to the racks. Something heavier falls on his head.

“Bullshit!” says Huge and Bulging #1. “Are you a spy? Are you one of the other families?”

“Families?”

“Don’t fucking play dumb with us.”

“I don’t know what’s going on here. I’m Steven Grant. I’m nobody.”

Huge and Bulging #2 laughs. “If you’re nobody, no one ain’t gonna miss you if you disappear.” He must be really proud of that line.

“Shut up, Bennison.” #1 turns back to him. Another smack in the face. “How ‘bout your date?” (Some sniggering from #2 and #3). “Is he a spy too?”

Blood is trickling down his eye. The forehead tears too easily; it might have been #1’s bear paw of a hand that caused the bleeding, or it might have been the edge of one of the bottles that have been dropping one him.

“He’s my plus-one.”

After the next punch he notices that there are red spots on his white jacket, just on the lapel. He looks down and notices the hurried polished shoes rushing and blocking out the light streaming in from the bottom of the door.

“What’re you smiling about, bitch?”

He licks the blood off his lips. “You guys carrying guns?”

#2’s hand reaches up to trace the outline of his gun under his jacket, but whether or not he’s taking it out doesn’t matter. Three Huge and Bulging are no big deal for him, and the cramped space only helps him even more. He must have accidentally hit the light above them because the room goes dark just as he brings down his fists on the back of one of their heads. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes off his blood. It seems like the cut has stopped bleeding.

He pulls on his mask and opens the door. He blinks in the light. Castle is at the end of the corridor smashing two heads together. They pass each other mid-way. He points to the open storeroom.

“Don’t say that I’ve never done anything for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And there goes the signal. The millionaires have started screaming and running for the exits and the sirens are getting louder. Castle has stopped firing. He must have gotten what he wanted.

He has three minutes before Buck gets here. He’s never had much patience with cracking safes--Frenchie might have whipped up something to help him, but Frenchie isn’t here, is he? He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top two buttons of his stiff crisp shirt. This safe might be made of some tough metal but the crescent dart dangling from the chain around his neck is carbonium.

The vial of synthetic contagious werewolf blood fits nicely in his pants pocket. The crescent dart makes a pretty map of hairline fractures and cracks in the window; a light kick shatters it, allowing the cold November wind to greedily rush in.

Angelwing noiselessly rises to his level. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I saw your TV show.”

“You watch TV?”

Castle tied his black bowtie quickly and smoothly. “You should’ve stuck to acting.”

Marc passed him his ID and papers for the night. “Touché.” 

**Author's Note:**

> PS I'm going to pretend carbonium doesn't register on commercial scanners


End file.
